


Incalescence

by reveriewit



Series: Stark Moments [4]
Category: Iron Man (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Extremis (Marvel), Extremis Tony Stark, F/M, Medical Trauma, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveriewit/pseuds/reveriewit
Summary: The gruelling moment where Tony Stark is administered with the Extremis virus encountering the hallucination of a deceased Howard Stark; a vision echoed during an earlier period shortly after his father's death, forcibly confronting his fears of taking control of Stark Industries.





	Incalescence

         Ragged breath splutters, a heaviness over his eyelids proving all too much that Tony succumbs, relinquishing the drive to stay fully alert whilst awash with the sound of distancing footsteps. For whatever reason the air around him grows considerably cooler, a violent spasm across the inventor’s form gracelessly delivering the sensation that other injuries were coming to light - nervous system sparking in pain from the subtlest of movements on the man’s part bringing with it a grunt of cloying agony. The only comfort comes with the change in atmosphere once more, Maya’s steadfast presence bringing with it some additional warmth that only extends further as a prick is experienced upon his shattered arm.

                    The affect is instant, a surge of fire and ice traversing across the man’s appendage and engulfing his receptive veins, a red hot heat that he had never experienced in his entire life suddenly coursing through his very arteries as the sample of liquid pools within the limb to get to work. The virus takes in the cell formation of surrounding tissue and bone in a few seconds of internalised analysis, the futurist gritting his teeth with a muted groan, the flesh upon his fingertips hardening with an unprecedented layer of incrustation, initially slightly warm to the touch before enveloping in heat - there are a series of sickening cracks that send a shudder through the engineer, broken fingers re-setting themselves into place as fractures in bone miraculously heal with the concerted effort. Through the anguish the futurist manages the faintest simper, discomforting proof that it was working. There was hope. until—-

 ** < ERROR: EXTENSIVE CONTUSIONS DETECTED**  
**SCHEMA RESTRUCTURING IMMINENT**  
**STARK PROTOCOL: INITIATING**  
**GESTATION PERIOD: 24 HOURS >**

          The message shoots across from Tony’s ulna nerve towards his cerebellum, a thought that takes him aback with its sheer forcefulness, widened eyes dropping towards his body in fear before frantically swinging his line of vision in the scientist’s direction, beseeching in his confusion.

                    “I don’t understand--- Did you hear---? ** _”_**

          The question goes unfinished as an abrupt surge of heat quickly spreads without further warning, the suddenness of the motion causing for the man’s back to arch, lips agape with an initial breathless gasp only to make way for a blood-curdling **_scream._**  It echoes upwards into the room whilst Extremis commences its traversal from the lower half of the arm, using the clear pathway of the man’s veins to penetrate the entirety of his body, purging it of present red and white blood cells to be replenished with a newly created batch. The futurist’s skeletal structure is simultaneously analysed further as his form grows increasingly hot. As beneficial as this may be, it doesn’t hide the sheer agony **_ripping_**  through him, perspiration trickling as flesh is increasingly enveloped by an umber-like tinge amalgamating onto several patches of his body. There’s the **_stench_**  of burning hair, the inventor’s skull burdened with an unbearable discomfort that he raises his hand to grasp at it, a futile bid to ease the growing tension that curves over the irregular circumference.

                    But the virus has other designs for the important payload, swiftly targeting the man’s C1 cervical nerve to render a temporary means of paralysis- the process needed to be complete without further interruptions, the futurist’s head lulling to one side with his increasingly clearing vision locking onto the alarmed eyes that stare aghast from Maya, rendered catatonic and yet silently enduring every single shred of **_excruciating_**  pain as he experiences the notion of practically being cooked from the inside. Tony’s skin grows increasingly blackened and charred, the circuits within his undersuit melting as the golden sheath is absorbed by the heat and drawn into his skin, binding with dermis before making way for an overwhelming series of scabs to horrifyingly swarm over the inventor’s entire body.

          The darkened flesh systematically spreads across Tony’s form, starting from the central node of the opened wound where the arc reactor had once been nestled and traversing across every single inch of susceptible skin. It creeps upwards over his visage, eyes frantically blinking in sheer dread only to be utterly swept over as the all-encompassing cocoon takes hold. A darkness descends over panicked eyes before sweet relief comes in the guise of somewhat reprieving unconsciousness, a comparable break maligned by a perturbing vision that he had experienced once before.

*****

**[ APRIL 25TH, 1992: CAMBRIDGE, KING’S COLLEGE ALUMNI DINNER ]**

         “I’m serious, you look like shit. Tony look at me - how many have you had?”   
              “Cass, I came here for a break,  ** _not_** a lecture. What are you, my conscience? Pot, kettle. You know how the saying goes.”

          There’s a second where the young man considers whether he’s uttered the appropriate name, a slight tilt of his head denoting his delayed reaction. And yet there’s no clear reprisal,  **(**   _Cassandra, Maya... Doesn’t matter - after a while, lovers merge into an identical and attractively intelligent blur_ **)**. Tony’s head lulls back against one of the flimsy beige walls of the cramped cubicle, reverberations of an irregular and chaotic beat rippling across the surface and slithering through follicles and sinew alike. A hand passing over his dampened visage as darkened pupils strain to effectively focus on the woman despite their close proximity, heated breath and the tugging of teeth shared at regular intervals.

                    Fingernails grazing over skin, synapses sparking electric as the cloying air surrounding them swarms in intermittent pulses, hues increasing in vibrancy as the heir lets himself slip into this soothing euphoria. God how he had needed this, his hand distractedly fumbling over the curved edges of the grey device that had resided within his pocket, anxious eyes briefly peeling themselves away from her due to an  ** _irritating_**  high pitch, narrowing over the minuscule screen of a beeper whose digital message sent a chill along the length of his spine.

**:: ANSWER MY GODDAMN CALLS | OBI ::**

          Tony knew exactly what that conversation would entail and, quite frankly, he wasn’t ready for it - a boardroom of judgemental old pricks who would spend fuck-knows how long passing judgement on the  ** _“the kid”._**  The name in which they had always referred to him regardless of the numerous ideas and heightened intellect that the Stark junior brought to the table during every possible meeting. Apparently, experience and legacy meant more than a fresh outlook ingrained in the present and future  **(**   _go figure..._ **).**  But he draws himself back into the instant, shooting his breathless company a look that could only be described as having the faintest hint of playful malice,  ** _‘none of your business’_** coming across loud and clear with the teasing raise of his eyebrow and the abrupt clash of their lips.

                    His fleeting attention span had wanted the conversation to follow a differing path as opposed to his personal well-being, wanted to move onto the new creation he had  ** _brilliantly_**  pieced together after months of constant work instead of a balance of food and social interaction  **(**   _besides, what the hell was sleep?_ **).**  An artificial intelligence that would rival the likes of anything that the schmucks at Apple, IBM or Microsoft could produce.  **(**   _Boy, Cass'd get a kick out of this_ **) _,_** the thought alone sending a manic grin to twitch into place, utterly preoccupied by it as the notion spins in cyclical ellipses at the base of his outstretched mind. Tony’s motionless as her pout traverses lower over his jaw, limbs slackening as dull colours oscillate into those with more appeal,  ** _bored_**  already, needing to move on. The rectangular formation of the incessant beeper is twirled between dexterous fingertips, a lingering pause  **(**   _why the hell not?_ **)**  before plunging the contraption into the open bowl of the toilet, swirling water pooling inside with a nudge of the chrome lever.

          It’s with a quick tug at her wrist that he beckons for the young woman to follow, disregarding the fact that he’d lost his blazer or bow-tie somewhere along the way, sliding past disgruntled students and graduates who had been part of a winding queue outside. Bypassing the gentile Cantab dinner taking place in one of the decorated gardens  **(**   _Supreme Pseudo Intellectual Frat Party_ **),**  instead seeking the source of the music which had been drilled into the base of his skull. A heat  ** _ripping_**  through the young heir, engulfing every single pore as they drew closer to the location in question, finding themselves in the midst of the Student Union where one of the many burgeoning societies were celebrating... something or other  **(**   _not important - a party’s a party_ **).**  Pulsating bright strobe lights set the darkened atmosphere  ** _on fire,_**  the air heavy and damp as shadowed figures cavort, writhing against one another as the rampant beat kicks in.

                    Young arms are raised upwards before there’s the chance to fully react, the billionaire’s form merging with the convoluted mass of bodies that shift and sway together as one. Unbridled movement that sees his skin increasingly glisten, soaking into the amalgamating thin layers of material that encompass him, soon bringing with it a deathly echo that violently  ** _shudders_  **in quick succession. A terrifying and distant figure that remains within Tony’s periphery regardless of whichever way he turns, grey-white hair shining and engulfed - the  ** _boy’s_**  world comes crashing down to its knees, one word falling from parted lips regardless of how unlikely the vision before him seems.

_**“...dad?”**_

          The wave of youthful bodies buffets him away from the tall figure in Tony’s motionless state, movement that manifests as a rapturous rhythm in time with the music which thrums throughout the expansive room and its extremities. A singular formation that the young man tries to fight against, elbows and shoulders inching their way forwards in a bid to get closer. And yet the glimpse of the silhouette of his father continues to evade his best efforts, it maintains being several steps ahead much to his son’s frustration, heart pounding in his chest with each distancing second that passes and sees the back of the headful of aged hair edging away. It appears that they’re both heading for the exit, or rather the elder is _**leading**_ them, the senior member of the eponymous family having little to no difficulty parting the crowd like the Red Sea, a subtle albeit stern glance over his shoulder as Howard slips through the doorway with ease.

                    And yet it’s still a struggle for the son, contending with a suffocating wall of whispers increasing in volume. Glares aimed his way, scanning over the shambles of an individual who frantically stumbles in his panic. It’s with a considerable  ** _heave_**  that Tony finally bursts through the exit, suddenly engulfed by a blinding deluge of light that causes the dark environment to blanch out. It fades away entirely, the sun scorching up above accompanied by the screech of an anonymous bird of prey lacerating through the dry atmosphere. The young man’s surroundings are suddenly consumed by sand, a barren land where harsh winds whip the coarse granules into a frenzy to seemingly filter into every crevice that Tony possesses. It’s getting harder to breath, constricting throat and chest set alight in irritation with fragments choking him past gritted teeth. Head cowed to tackle the impeding gusts, eyes narrow over a hidden nodule that pokes out from fair grains, digits reaching down to brush them aside and turn the odd object within his hand.

          The smooth curves of a tangerine settles within his palm, confusion giving way to the faintest of simpers that threatens to tug at Tony’s lips as he experiences small albeit defining throwbacks from his childhood. A time before heading back to boarding school where a cold had gripped him, rendering the boy bed bound with copious punnets having been imported from Spain. A simple fact that went hand in hand with the benefits of citrus fruit which were supposedly “curing” him along with chicken soup. That autumnal period had been hell, but the time with his mother and the household’s ageing butler had been one of his fondest memories regardless of poor health. The segue is marred by a literal shadow, the floor before his crouched stance abruptly overcast from the tall figure of the elder Stark whose stern features impassively stare back. Tony doesn’t understand this encounter, a notion that isn’t lost on the other, silence reigning as the older man simply motions with a quirk of his wrist for the boy to start digging by any means necessary.

                    And so the heir does in his stupor, _**unrelenting**_ sunlight beaming down over gradually dampening skin, the youngster’s fingers trembling in continuous friction, growing increasingly sore and  blistered with each handful of sand that’s brushed away. An ache that extends up over his arms, traversing to his very core whose fatigue washes over him in waves in his unquestioning obedience... and it dawns on him that that had always been the case, that years of conditioning had supposedly irreversibly taken hold of the young man, unwilling to stand up for himself due to a deeply set fear that had the power to render oneself catatonic. Fingertips begin to filter through solid fragments, nondescript pieces of bone paving the way for more familiar items. Namely, of individual teeth that rattle against one another, the deepening crevice being dug up exponentially revealing more. All broken apart, never whole. Pieces of a woeful and macabre puzzle that requires patience and composure to resolve.  ** _To heal._**

         And yet Tony doesn’t stop to do so regardless of the nearby looming figure that overlooks his progress, determination that sees him hellbent on revealing what else was present beneath all these gruesome layers. Whether they could bring with them one of many revelations that had plagued the youth, answers nestled at the bottom of this endless pit that sees him several feet in the shifting ground. Fingernails suddenly scrape into a hardened substance that remains poised in the sand, met with a sonorous clang as the heir wraps against it with raw and pinkened knuckles - sections of metal, or more precisely, a series of alloys combined for strength and durability. Tony stares at the intricate formation of a face-plate in awe, admiring the engineering prowess that had been implemented, curiosity getting the better of him as his weight alters, sending the turbulent floor to quake and shift.

                    The Stark junior begins to sink into the glimmering layers but, surprisingly, doesn’t struggle or exclaim, quickened breath from the laborious task evening out, letting himself simply plunge deeper and deeper as the segments swallow and become a part of him. He knows better than to reach out or ask Howard for help, the young man willing to accept this fate---  ** _no,_**  fate and destiny were for hippies. This was a probable eventuality that Stark wouldn’t fight against, wholly willing to build upon legacy to start anew - regardless of occurrences that were set to malign and shame,  ** _there would always be iron within the Stark backbone._**  A tenacity that meant that when all was lost, there was a dormant resilience that could never be scathed, and no one, regardless of importance, would ever be permitted to stand in his way. Even if it meant trampling on those around him, the youth would forge his own path and make a name for himself  **(**   _after all, progress was about moving forwards as opposed to dwelling on ancient ruination_ **).**  The graduate was tired of living in someone else's dated shadow, sick of comparisons that were fleeting when fully considered to the fullest of their extent - _**change**_ was imminent and he would be damned if anyone had the audacity to attempt to stop him.


End file.
